


in your heart, a garden

by obscuriaal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1800s, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, Seventies, The Apocalypse that Wasn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 12:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscuriaal/pseuds/obscuriaal
Summary: In which Crowley isn't quite as stupid as he looks, and Aziraphale says something with a tartan thermos that he can't with words.[there was more to that scene in 70s Soho]





	in your heart, a garden

**Author's Note:**

> I won't pretend this is much more than indulging myself in writing about my favourite characters, and I won't apologise for it. Hope you enjoy <3

Now, no one could really argue that Crowley wasn’t an idiot in myriad different ways- there was quite enough evidence in human history already to prove that point _several_ times over, particularly if the one making the argument was a particular angel with a long memory.

 

However, while that might be true, he wasn’t actually _stupid_.

 

Crowley knew that there was absolutely no need for him to assemble a motley crew of opportunistic ne’er-do-wells and to come up with a labyrinthine heist to break into a church (an eminently public and fairly ubiquitous location) in the middle of the night (completely irrelevant to the plan) in order to steal a small quantity of holy water (free and unrestricted). He could accomplish what he wanted just as easily by slipping a kid a fiver and a glass jar. It would take far less effort, and involve far less time in the underbelly of Soho.

 

But that wasn’t exactly the _point_ , was it. He wasn’t stupid, and Crowley had been a pawn in the plans of a careless, smiling god for long enough to know that absolutely nothing happened by chance.

 

Crowley had known Soho since its population had been in only double digits and where now lay cobbled streets and roads were only the worn tracks of hose-drawn ploughs. He’d watched the humans outgrow their little city and quickly swallow up the land around it, the march of progress unimpeded - except for that nasty business with the fire in 1666. Hastur had thought himself so bloody clever for that one.

 

Demons in general were not known for the appreciation of humanity; it was, after all, their job to be the thorn in the side of their heavenly father’s favoured creation at every turn. He suspected that very few of them knew that London and Glasgow were different places, let alone appreciated the little nuances that marked each place, each people, as their own. But Crowley had loved London since he’d watched Boudica take the city back from Roman rule; it was hard not to root for a rebel.

 

It was the first place he could really say he’d ever settled, after more than five thousand years upon the Earth. Perhaps it was some sign of maturity, no longer content to wander from place to place without laying down a single root- or maybe it had a little more to do with a bookshop, and the angel who had built it.

 

***

 

The humans love when one century ticks over to the next, observing this simple passage of time with excitement and reverence that Crowley can’t help but think is a little sweet, having seen so many. 1800 was no different, and the air in the streets of Soho had buzzed with possibility, with the promise of _new_ and _better_ and _more._

 

As the population grew, it became easier and more tempting to meet Aziraphale in public; there were enough people about that they could blend into the crowd without too much trouble. At least, Crowley didn’t have much trouble- he enjoyed that every time he blinked, the fashion of England had changed. He was quite enjoying this particular tailcoat; the tailor had done fantastic work, whether he’d understood why or not, and he didn’t even mind the tied neck cloth, even if it was a bit of a faff to get on.

 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, looked as he usually did- almost a decade too late, and so distinctly ethereal that it was almost as if you could drag him through the infamous London sewers and he’d come out looking cleaner at the other end. His pale hair haloed his face in such a way that it was a miracle he’d never found himself in trouble for it, and through the cobbled streets were slick with rainfall, not a drop had dampened the angel’s hair.

 

He hadn’t noticed, and Crowley wasn’t sure whether that was annoying, or a relief. He wasn’t about to own up to the miracle either way.

 

“All that I am trying to say is, I would have thought that they might have been a little more appreciative of that business with Jenner’s vaccination- it took quite some doing to get people on board with the idea, and look how well it’s doing.”

 

“Mm, yes, the word is that ol’ Pestilence has been kicking up _quite_ the stink down below about that,” Crowley agreed, with no small amount of relish. He’d never known such a jobsworth, quite content to scupper any plan, divine or damned, with a distinctly inconvenient epidemic.

 

Aziraphale huffed, a quite _un_ angelic look upon his face. “Well exactly- surely that can only be a good thing? And I told Gabriel, if they all live a little longer, that is more time to live well, to repent their sins and spread the good word, and all of that. More time to find their way to the path of righteousness. It was as though I had done something _wrong_.” He paused, collected himself, schooled his tone. “No word from the Almighty though, so it cannot _really_ have been outside the Plan. Ah- look, here we are. After you, dear boy.”

 

With a quick doff of his hat, the angel motioned Crowley towards a covered doorway. Upon entering, he was quickly divested of his coat by a well-intentioned but overenthusiastic maitre d’, who reverently greeted Aziraphale as he followed behind him.

 

“Been here before, have you?”

 

“Oh yes, I told you, they do the most exquisite _foie gras_ \- the chef truly is an artist,” he gushed, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

 

The slightly sad and limp spray of carnations that adorned their table filled with life and colour and several other species of flowers as they were seated- _not_ Crowley’s doing, he had little sympathy for quitters- and Aziraphale happily took Crowley’s wine glass and began to fill it from a bottle of good red, the likes of which the restaurant could only dream of serving.

 

He lifted his glass, and lightly clinked it against his companion’s. “Cheers, angel.” Thank Satan for the wine- he wondered if Aziraphale would ever notice that he didn’t actually _eat_.

 

Their conversation was overtaken by the murmur of polite Georgian chatter, Crowley lounging back in his seat as he waited for Aziraphale to make a selection- Aziraphale’s eyes flitted back and fourth like a fair of courting butterflies while Crowley’s stayed locked on the angel, from behind his tinted glasses. He sipped his wine. He _finished_ his wine.

 

“I thought you were a regular- do hurry up, angel.”

 

Aziraphale shushed him, chidingly. “I have had a long, trying day, my dear. Have a little patience, won’t you. I’m back up to Dunwich tomorrow.”

 

Though his eyes were hidden, Crowley felt confident Aziraphale knew he had rolled them. “If you stay there any longer, they’ll run out of room for houses- _eight_ churches, angel, that’s got to be getting closer to greed than righteousness.”

 

He’d been there a couple of times, and initially had had to make excuses, but increasingly was able to pass it off as making a proactive effort to combat the heavenly influence of an Upstairs operative. If the people there got any more pious, he’d struggle to walk upon the ground.

 

“Yes, well. If I am honest, I’m getting rather sick of it. I far prefer thwarting the wicked plans of evil-doers than trying to stop the devout from doing awful things under the guise of- well, you know how it is,” he added, with a wave of his hand.

 

And oh, Crowley did. While he could not deny that they made his job easier, he was frequently astounded by the depths to which humans could sink without any sort of interference. “Didn’t one of the priests go a little-”

 

“Proximity to the divine can loosen one’s grip on reality, we both know that,” Aziraphale replied, a trifle testily, and looked a little relieved when the maitre d’ arrived at their table with a crisp notebook and a poised pencil. He ordered quickly- the bloody _foie gras_ , as Crowley had known all along- and glanced back to make sure that the human had moved out of earshot before speaking again.

 

“But of course _they_ ,” he flicked his eyes upwards, “are pretending it didn’t happen at all. I believe one of yours even took credit for it.”

 

A nod. “Ligur. He’s always loved corrupting the clergy. Is it true that the man-”

 

“I really would rather not talk about it.”

 

“Consider it dropped.”

 

Aziraphale didn’t reply as he was talking a deep drink from his glass with the voracity of one who obviously needed it. When he set it down, Crowley topped him up from the bottle.

 

“It sounds like you could do with a change of scenery. I think Dunwich has probably had its fill of angelic influence.”

 

“I can’t imagine it would be much different anywhere else, dear boy. Too much, you know, ethereality, and not enough humans to spread it evenly. It’s the same for you, I’m sure.”

 

Crowley wasn’t going to admit that he suspected Aziraphale’s sphere of unconscious influence was far greater than his own; he was a principality after all, while Crowley had been a lesser angel back then, and he was hardly a demon of rank now. When humans did terrible things near him, he took credit, but rarely felt it was deserved.

 

“Sometimes. Not here though- too many of the buggers, too close together. Too many of their own problems.”

 

“Really?” Aziraphale replied, eyebrows raised in interest. “They do say that the cities are just awash in sin though, I think it might be a little different.”

 

“Maybe. More cathedrals though- more churches even than Dunwich, just not quite so close together. And you could say you’re _saving_ them. It could all look rather good- Earth’s sole angelic operative moves to the city of sinners to bring the populace towards the light. How many souls is that, a million?”

 

“I hardly think I could save them _all_ ,” Aziraphale replied, in the tone of one who was trying not to linger too much on the thought of how glorious that might be. “Besides, _you’re_ here, aren’t you.”

 

“Oh, I’m everywhere.” Perhaps here more _often_ if he were given a reason to be. “But they’re bound to love that too, fight the evil at its source. You’ll have a commendation in no time.”

 

A plate of indulgent food was placed on the tablecloth before Aziraphale, and Crowley knew he had his attention, as the angel did not even reach for his fork. His blue eyes were turned to the street, to the carriages pulling by, to the labourers working in the rain just opposite as they cemented red bricks together into what was sure to be a very handsome corner building.

 

“What ever would I _do_ here? Everything is so _busy_.”

 

Crowley swilled his glass. If he were a better demon, he’d have layered his voice with temptation, hissed the words into Aziraphale’s ear. If Aziraphale were a better angel, he’d have needed to.

 

“Lovely place for a bookshop, don’t you think.”

 

****

 

He could easily have found a route to The Dirty Donkey that didn’t involve passing Aziraphale’s bookshop- in fact, he’d had to take several turns out of his way to do it, and he didn’t even pause as the Bentley purred past the shop front. It could be considered overkill; the angel was sure to have heard rumours by now of the little stunt Crowley was planning on pulling. The co-conspirators he’d chosen were not known for their tight-lipped nature, and that was fine.

 

They were being paid well for their charade; Crowley could afford it, and he wasn’t really sure what the going rate for a heist was these days anyway. He’d once paid a man two bronze coins to steal a horse, but he wasn’t sure how that translated into seventies money. He just paid.

 

It was only when he found himself crowded into the shadows of a back alley by the new locksman, Shadwell, that he worried he’d flashed a little too much cash. Was he about to be mugged? Now would be an awfully inconvenient time to get himself stabbed by a witch-obsessed northerner- he’d have a hard time explaining that to Downstairs.

 

“Mr Crowley, may I have a moment of your time?”

 

It he was about to rob him, it seemed that at least Shadwell was going to be polite about it. Crowley cast a glance across the road, to where his Bentley waited for him, empty. He supposed there wasn’t really any hurry.

 

“Ah yes, Lance Corporal Shadwell,” he replied, sibilant, cocky. “What exactly _are_ you a Lance Corporal in? You don’t strike me as an army man.” Not holding himself like that, not fresh from a lock up, and certainly not in the hungry way his eyes raked Crowley.

 

_Oh._

 

“Not of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, no. My organisation, our scope and our mission are far greater than the squabbles of southerners, you see. ’Tis a secret army, that battles the forces of darkness- witchcraft, Mr Crowley.”

 

He had to remind himself not to laugh, but his lip curled into a smirk regardless. “Oh, is that so? If it’s so secret, then why are you telling me, Lance Corporal? Your superiors might not like that so much.”

 

Shadwell was quite close now, perhaps to be sure his words would not carry, but Crowley didn’t think so. He didn’t step back. “In service of the Witchfinder Army Mr Crowley, I have plenty o’ me own agency. And I should think a man such as yourself,” his eyes lingered on Crowley’s dark glasses, his lips. “Might have use of our services.”

 

Crowley liked to think he understood humour, but he rather wondered if he was missing a joke now. “Of witchfinders?” he asked, breathlessly. In the literal sense; he’d forgotten all about breathing.

 

“We’re quite versatile.”

 

His tongue flicked out over his lips, dry, watched. Intrigued. “Is that so?”

 

The man nodded. “I’m sure we could come to some arrangement. You strike me as a generous man.”

 

“Oh, on the contrary. I can be quite the devil, Mr Shadwell.”

 

“Lance Corporal.”

 

“ _Yess_ , of course.”

 

“Perhaps we should find somewhere more private to discuss it.”

 

“Do you have _ss_ omewhere in mind?”

 

“ _Crowley?_ ”

 

He hadn’t realised how close he and Shadwell were standing until he jumped back a foot and almost cracked his head against a wall. Blinking, he rubbed his head and looked towards the source of the voice.

 

Aziraphale was illuminated from above by the fluorescent glow of a streetlamp at the end of the alleyway; on anyone else, it would have been harsh, unforgiving, but to the angel it was a halo, and Crowley could not linger on the image long. At times, looking at Aziraphale could be a little like looking directly into the sun; he was not sure if this was because he was a demon looking upon the holy, or because he was in love with him.

 

“Aziraphale, what a surprise.” He replied, quietly miracling his hair back into place and sauntering towards the light as though he’d not been doing something quite else a moment before. Or rather, quite seriously considering it.

 

“What _are_ you doing lurking about in the dark?” he demanded, in the tone of one who was gaining steam to give quite a thorough telling off. “And who-”

 

Shadwell, with no apparent regard for the hierarchy of heavenly hosts, cast a dirty look at the angel and made sure to catch him with his shoulder as he pushed past; the moment had obviously passed. “Bloody southern _poofs_ ,” he spat, turned heel, and was gone. Crowley did not spare a glance after him.

 

“Lurking _is_ the demonic way, angel. It’s what we do.”

 

“ _Pfft_. Them maybe, not _you_ , dear boy. Come on with you, I rather not spend a moment longer around _here_ than I must. Get in the car.”

 

“It’s _my_ car,” he replied, petulantly, but did as he was told, and soon had slunk into the driver’s seat. The angel on the passenger’s side would not look at him.

 

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing Crowley, but I must tell you that I do not like it one bit.”

 

Angels, in their truest, purest forms, were beings composed of nothing but light and love; this could be shaped and contained within a human vessel, but just as Crowley’s essence always lurked just below the surface, so too did Aziraphale’s. He usually seemed to have no trouble containing it, but now he _glowed._ Even with his sunglasses, Crowley had to squint.

 

“Shadwell? Oh, Aziraphale, it’s nothing, really, he’s just helping me out with a little project-”

 

 _“_ That is _exactly_ what I mean! A church, Crowley, are you mad? Your side won’t look kindly on it and they are _bound_ to find out- and that _man_ , he-”

 

Aziraphale cut himself off, pursed his lips, and the interior of the car dimmed. It looked like it took some effort. “His intentions were far from pure. You must have known that.”

 

“Oh, really? Well, that’s alright- my lot’ll be quite pleased that I inspired a little _lust_.”

 

“ _Stop_ it. Stop- we both know you’re not some _succubus_.”

 

“Needs must, angel.”

 

“Yes. Well, no. That’s- that’s actually why I came to find you. I won’t have you putting yourself in danger like this. I won’t allow it. I- brought you something.”

 

With this admission, he produced a thermos- the sort another man might have kept full of hot coffee for long journeys. Tartan, and complete with a plastic cup that doubled as a lid. And Crowley knew at once what was in it.

 

“Is that-”

 

“From St. Paul’s. But I blessed it myself.”

 

But he did not hand it to Crowley. “I want you to promise me- _promise_ me, Crowley- that you will not open it unless there is no other option, no other _possible_ way besides this. You know what it would do to you.”

 

“It’s not _for_ me, Aziraphale. I told you before.”

 

“Don’t. Just give me your word.”

 

“You have it, angel. I promise.”

 

The words came easily; he’d have promised him anything, and mean it too. Their fingers touched. Crowley’s eyes darted up, another word on his lips, three words, on the tip of his tongue for centuries.

 

The car was empty, but for him. It would have to wait.

 

***

 

In the grand scheme of their long, long lives, another forty or so years wasn’t all that long, by the time he did say the words, they were all but redundant. He’d told Aziraphale _I love you_ in a thousand different ways before he said them out loud; the best way Aziraphale had found to say itback was to quietly take up residence in Crowley’s apartment in the days that followed the aborted Apocalypse.

 

The space was brutal and mostly bare, but for the art that Crowley had collected like trophies over the centuries (“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale had admonished when he’s seen the statue of the two angels. Crowley had blushed; he’d done of lot of that lately), so Aziraphale had set about softening it- a couple of books here, a woollen rug there. He’d filled Crowley’s cupboard with food and crockery, not because he would necessarily need it, but because a home should have those things. His angel-winged mug hung from a mug tree on the side, and there was one for Crowley too; he’d convert him to cocoa eventually.

 

As much as Crowley might pretend otherwise, the flat didn’t have an actual aura of evil, but he still felt the vibrations of a particular _bright_ spot as he crossed the threshold into Crowley’s office, and paused, looking down to his feet. The floor was clean and unmarked, but the angel could still sense the echo of holiness in that particular spot- and perhaps the echo of something sulphurous. He frowned.

 

The thermos had rolled underneath Crowley's desk at some point- to Aziraphale's horror, with the lid only loosely fastened and enough holy water still inside to set the angel's heart racing with the thought of what might have happened.

 

It was a relic of another time, without even considering the tartan pattern. When Aziraphale had put the thermos into his friend's hands, it had been for fear of the wrath Hell might bring down upon their disobedient son, if they were to ever realise he and the demon’s association. But the storm had come for the both of them and they had weathered it, together, and heard not a whisper from their respective head offices ever since.

 

If they could still be called that. Aziraphale was fairly sure they were both _quite_ fired.

 

He first screwed the cap tight shut, paused, and then removed it entirely, pottering out of the office and down the hall. _Be careful of the plants,_ Crowley had warned him. _I’ve been corrupting them for decades._ But his dear dreadful demon had never been much good at that sort of thing; the plants held no aura of malice. They were just plants- beautiful and leafy, as green and as lush as Eden, with a far more attentive gardener. His mouth pulled into a fond smile as he spotted the plant mister at the foot of a large pot, price label still attached. This was a place of love, far more than it had ever been one of fear.

 

There were a lot of rules about the proper disposal of holy water, and while Aziraphale supposed it wouldn’t really matter much now, it wouldn’t have felt right just to pour it away. Instead he was delicate, carefully precise, as he let what was left trickle into the soil of one plant, and then another, and another, until the last drop was gone.

 

“Just our little secret, you understand,” he murmured with a soft smile and a wink, running his fingers along the underside of one wide, verdant leaf.

 

He kept the thermos, after that; it had a place in the cupboard in his bookshop’s little kitchen, though it was never used again. The very first _I love you_ gathered dust, but it didn’t matter; they had a shared eternity to say it in more ways than even the Almighty could have fathomed.


End file.
